


Dean Winchester is a 100% Heterosexual, Manly Man of Masculinity

by kyaticlikestea



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU-Mortal, College AU, Humour, M/M, Romance, Teeny bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyaticlikestea/pseuds/kyaticlikestea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'He definitely isn’t Dean’s type. The ‘he’ is a major factor in that. Dean doesn’t go for guys. He doesn’t have a problem with people who do, or anything like that. If some guys like the thought of doing that with other guys then, well, good luck to them. Dean can tip his metaphorical hat to them and move onto the leggy blonde nearby. No, he’s not some sort of closet homophobe or anything like that. He just likes women. He likes their long legs and their soft hair and lips and their smooth skin and the way they like him. He just doesn’t swing the other way. </p><p>Which doesn’t really explain why he finds the guy behind Jo so fascinating.'</p><p>Or, the one in which Dean enters crisis talks with his own sexuality and maybe falls in love a little bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awkward Realisations and Bad Coffee

Dean honestly can’t remember the last time he genuinely surprised himself. Sure, there was that time he finally managed to bed that redhead he’d been chasing for the better part of a month before suddenly deciding that actually, once he’d got her between the sheets, she wasn’t all that, and he’d kicked her out before he’d even gotten off. That hadn’t been his usual routine. He’d more than made up for that since, though. 

No, this is in a different league. He feels a bit funny about himself, truth be told. That’s probably why Jo is looking at him like he’s just sprouted a second head or started raving about how much he loves Selena Gomez and Mini Coopers. Well, she’ll have to look for a bit longer. Dean hasn’t finished taking in the guy behind her yet, browsing the books in the Classic Literature section. 

He definitely isn’t Dean’s type. The ‘he’ is a major factor in that. Dean doesn’t go for guys. He doesn’t have a problem with people who do, or anything like that. If some guys like the thought of doing that with other guys then, well, good luck to them. Dean can tip his metaphorical hat to them and move onto the leggy blonde nearby. No, he’s not some sort of closet homophobe or anything like that. He just likes women. He likes their long legs and their soft hair and lips and their smooth skin and the way they like him. He just doesn’t swing the other way. 

Which doesn’t really explain why he finds the guy behind Jo so fascinating. 

He’s not wearing anything particularly flamboyant or anything like that, and he doesn’t have a tail or an extra leg. He just looks like an ordinary guy of about Dean’s age – which explains why he’s in the college library – if a little more intense than Dean’s used to. He’s wearing some weird kind of long, beige coat, which does strike Dean as slightly odd considering it’s warm in here even with the air-con turned up full blast, and he looks like he hasn’t even heard of a comb. Dean finds him to be entirely greater than the sum of his parts. 

Jo waves her hand in front of Dean’s face. 

“Earth to Dean?” she says. “Is Kim Kardashian behind me or something?”

Too late, Dean realises she’s going to turn around and see Messy Hair Guy, and he’s going to be busted. 

Jo does indeed turn around, and wolf-whistles. 

“All right, Dean, I understand how you could be enjoying the view! I mean, he’s wearing a different sort of undergarment to your usual type, but - ”

“Shut up, Jo,” Dean mutters, flushing a horrible shade of crimson. He picks up the Psychology textbook from the table and pretends to flick through it, but he can’t stop his eye from wandering to behind Jo again. Of course Jo notices, the bitch, and she laughs again, grabbing his face in her hands. 

“Dean, if you help me finish reading this chapter, I will personally go over there and ask him if he thinks you’re fuckable,” she says. Dean shoves her away from him and she lets out a piercing shriek of laughter. If Messy Hair Guy hadn’t noticed them acting like morons before, he definitely has now. 

“Shut up, Jo,” Dean repeats, this time angrily, and to her credit, Jo does. She leans back in her chair, arms folded, and regards him carefully, one eyebrow raised. Dean hates it when she does that. 

“Dean.”

“Jo.”

They sit in stalemate for a few seconds, eyes locked, unmoving. Unsurprisingly, Jo cracks first. 

“OK, OK, fine. I’ll stop pestering. But I’m also going to point out that I’m absolutely desperate to use the bathroom, and I’m also menstruating, so I’m probably going to take a very long time, time which you can either use to revise shit you already know or to go over there and get that guy’s number.”

Dean takes a couple of moments to process what she’s suggesting between the things that make him want to throw up, and before he can protest or thank her she’s already left him there like a blushing idiot and oh God, Messy Hair Guy is definitely looking now. He’s got a really intense stare that makes Dean feel a bit like his soul is being examined thoroughly, and his eyes are stupidly blue. Seriously. Dean thinks they’d be classed as ‘Heavenly Azure’ on one of those DIY store colour charts. He immediately wants to wash his brain out with bleach for thinking something so girly. He feels like he’ll start growing a womb any second, and resolves to fix up a car or three when he gets home to make up for it. 

First, however, he’s got a mission to complete. His track record with women isn’t bad. It’s not 100%, sure, but whose is? He reckons that even Johnny Depp’s probably been turned down once or twice. He cautiously thinks about Johnny Depp naked, and shudders at the image. Right, that’s sorted then. He hasn’t suddenly become gay overnight. Which doesn’t explain why his pulse starts quickening like he’s the heroine with the heaving bosom in one of Sam’s prissy French novels when he glances up and sees that Messy Hair Guy is still regarding him with a look of friendly curiosity. 

Dean is just pretending to read some boring Psychology paper, gathering together the last scraps of resolve he has left to go up to this guy and actually start a conversation, when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He looks up and almost shits himself when he sees that Messy Hair Guy is standing in front of him, so close that it’s obvious he has some kind of weird reverse personal space issue, looking down at him like he’s an exhibit in a museum. 

Dean clears his throat. 

“Can I help you?” he asks, and congratulates himself on managing to get actual words out, in English, which is a pleasant achievement. 

“Yes,” says Messy Hair Guy. “I would like to see what you are reading.” 

Dean thinks his life might be a deleted scene from a cable TV sit-com, but goes with the flow.

“Erm,” he says eloquently. Messy Hair Guy does that thing with his eyebrow again and Dean’s heart reacts in the same way as before. He gestures towards the chair in which Jo had been sitting. “Sit down, then. I don’t think you’ll be interested in this shit, though. Christ, I’m studying it and I don’t find it interesting.” 

Messy Hair Guy takes the seat, and close up, from this angle, Dean can see that actually, in a really weird way, he’s totally Dean’s type. He’s got cheekbones you could slice your hand on, for a start. He’s just a bit shorter than Dean, which Dean’s always found is the perfect height for coupley things like hugging; all the things he’d do if he were, you know, a girl. Then Dean realises that a short time has passed and neither of them has said anything, so he picks up the Psychology journal he was pretending to read and hands it to Messy Hair Guy. 

“Here,” he says, doing his best impression of Captain Obvious. “It’s sort of interesting, I guess, if you’re into that sort of thing, which I am, because I’m doing my Psychology Masters. It’s all about the relationship between childhood and adulthood friendships and the different dynamics you have between kids who say they’re best friends and adults who actually are, y’know? Like, kids have three best friends in a week, whereas Jo – she’s the one you might have noticed with me a few minutes ago, the one with the really annoying laugh – has been my best friend for ages, and I’d probably do just about anything for her. But yeah, it’s quite a good read, really, especially if - ”

“I have a confession,” says Messy Hair Guy. “I did not approach you with any intention of discussing your reading material.”

“O-oh?” Dean chokes out, worried he sounds like an emphysema patient but lacking the brain power to do anything about it. 

“No. As a matter of fact, I had noticed that you were not alone. You clearly have friends here. I am new to this area – I transferred to this college from another just last week – and have not yet had the opportunity to make the acquaintance of anyone I particularly care for. You seemed inherently approachable. I am sorry for the deception.”

It takes Dean a good ten seconds to process everything that this guy is saying to him, but when he thinks he’s got the gist, he manages to respond. 

“Wow,” he says. “Did your mother fuck a Dictionary or something?”

Messy Hair Guy does not respond; merely looks flatly at Dean. Dean swallows down the lump in his throat. 

“Err, anyway, yeah. I guess I’m not unpopular,” he continues. “I mean, I’m hardly Miss Congeniality, but I can introduce you to some cool people if you want.”

“That would be amenable,” agrees Messy Hair Guy. “My name is Castiel, by the way. I recognise that I could have made that apparent earlier in our acquaintance.”

“It’s fine,” says Dean, feeling a bit dizzy. Talking to this guy is a bit like speaking to someone in a foreign language you studied at high school; he essentially knows what he’s saying but doesn’t get all the words. “I’m Dean.” 

“It is nice to meet you,” says Castiel, and bless him, he holds out his hand for Dean to shake. He leans in conspiratorially. “If I am honest, you are the first person I have met so far whom I do not believe to be beyond help, psychologically speaking.”

Dean splutters in a vain attempt to hold his laugh in. He’s not sure whether Castiel intended for that to be hilarious, but he sees a faint smile quirk on his lips, so he thinks he’s safe. He’s suddenly hit by a flash of inspiration and grabs the Psychology journal, fishing around in his jacket pocket for a pen. Castiel narrows his eyes in confusion as Dean scribbles something down on the back of the journal, puts his pen back in his pocket and hands the journal to Castiel, who squints to read Dean’s embarrassing scrawl. 

“My number,” Dean explains apologetically. “You know, my friends and I usually hang out at the café on campus at lunch, around one-ish. You’re welcome to come with, if you want.”

“Would your friends mind?” asks Castiel, and Dean feels a pang of sympathy for this guy who, despite looking a bit like a male model, is clearly the most socially awkward person on the planet. 

“Nah, they’ll be cool with it,” says Dean. “Fresh meat and all.” 

It’s obvious that Castiel has no idea what Dean’s on about, but it’s all right because he’s studying Dean’s number carefully, and Dean’s pretty sure that he’s going to see him tomorrow and make even more references that confuse the heck out of him. 

By the time Jo comes back, Castiel’s left to find some book on Medieval German architecture and Dean’s grinning like a special, so much so that when Jo sees him she rolls her eyes and proclaims that he’s a lost cause. Dean kind of agrees. 

-

The café on campus isn’t anything fancy, just overpriced coffee in flimsy polystyrene cups, but it pretends to be. Dean consequently always feels like a bit of a douche whenever he’s in here, sitting on one of the faux-leather sofas and drinking a muddy black coffee that could be tar or next month’s rent money. If it weren’t for his friends, there’s no way he’d come in here. Ever. 

Today, the troops have rallied – well, of course they bloody have, Jo’s told them all about Dean’s new friend, although thankfully she’s left out the part where he was practically drooling over the guy – and Dean is joined not only by Jo, but by Dean’s brother, Sam, and Sam’s girlfriend of the month, this time a rather scantily clad girl called Meg, who looks a little like she could eat all of their souls for breakfast and still be hungry. Dean loves her immediately. It’s a shame she’s Sam’s age and therefore barely out of diapers (well, nineteen) or Dean would probably have already made a move by now. He’s not proud of it. 

Castiel is late. At least, Dean thinks he’s late. He never gave him an exact time to be here, did he? He just said they’d all be here at about one. It’s half one now, and Dean is starting to get that familiar itching feeling of being stood up. It’s not a feeling he particularly relishes. 

“So, where is this guy, Dean?” Sam asks, right on cue. Dean shrugs. 

“How should I know?” he replies. “I’m not his babysitter.”

“Stop being a jerk,” says Sam, looking disgusted. 

“Stop being a little bitch, then,” retorts Dean. 

“Children, children. Play nicely,” interrupts Jo. 

“Hello,” says Castiel, and Dean curses God that he has to make a complete dick of himself every time this guy is within a fifty foot radius. 

“Cas!” he exclaims, almost falling off the sofa in his attempt to make room for his new friend. Castiel looks perplexed as he sits down. 

“No-one has ever called me that,” he muses. 

“Sorry,” Dean says, blushing. 

“I quite like it,” says Cas, smiling at Dean and making Dean want to simultaneously jump on top of a mountain and sing songs from High School Musical and crawl into a hole and die. 

Meg clears her throat. Cas starts. 

“Guys, this is Cas,” Dean says, putting his hand on Cas’ shoulder and trying to look ironically sincere. Cas just looks worried. “He’s new here.”

“Hi, Cas,” his friends chorus. Dean realises they’ve planned this and he wants to kill them all. 

“You’re all comedians, really,” he says, and Sam flicks a marshmallow at him. 

“I do not understand the joke,” Cas states. Dean wants to slam his own head on the table but realises that this would be socially inappropriate, so he settles for looking at Jo, his eyes clearly stating ‘if you remark on that, I will tell everyone that you once fucked a Mormon’. She doesn’t say anything. 

Sadly, Meg does. 

“So, Cas. What are your intentions with our Dean?” she asks, smugly. Sam prods her in the elbow. Cas looks confused. 

“I do not believe I have any,” he replies. “Although if he were to intend to buy me a coffee, this would be amenable.” 

Meg bursts into laughter, and Cas looks incredibly pleased with himself, offering his already trademark half-smile to Dean. Dean can’t believe how this is panning out. If he’s honest with himself, he’d half expected Cas to immediately hate his friends and leave. Instead of trying to actually rationalise events, he nods dumbly and gets up to buy Cas a coffee. He has to sort of awkwardly walk over Cas, which makes Jo almost keel over trying to hold back her laughter. 

He stumbles over the coffee order; he has no idea what Cas likes, and what the hell is the difference between a caramelised mocha with extra shots of mint and chocolate and a grande soya latte with reduced cream anyway? Eventually, he opts to buy a regular filter coffee, figuring that Cas can gay it up with sugar and cream if he so chooses, and heads back to the table. 

The confusion was totally worth it, he realises, when Cas sees that Dean has actually bought him a coffee. He beams like he’s just been given the moon and immediately proclaims that he would like to meet Dean’s friends here every day. Dean grins and tells him that there won’t always be free coffee. Castiel just raises one eyebrow knowingly. 

Jo doesn’t take her eyes off them the entire time. 

-

By the time Dean gets back to the flat, he’s genuinely exhausted. His ribs ache from laughing so much. He thinks the cherry on the top of the cake was when Meg started talking about some shitty crime drama on NBC and Cas had stared at her blankly for at least fifteen minutes before asking her to repeat the entire story as he’d been contemplating the statistical probability of Sam’s hand actually falling off from stroking her neck for so long. Dean would feel guilty about laughing but Cas seemed perfectly happy to be the centre of the jokes, leaning back in his seat and clasping his mug in between his hands like he was afraid to drop it. 

Jo looks at him as he sits on his worn sofa, puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head to the side. Dean shrugs. 

“What?” he asks. Jo looks at him pointedly. 

“Dean,” she says. “Are you planning on telling me what’s going on with Cas, or are you going to keep treating me like an idiot?”

Dean finds the remote control under the sofa cushions and flicks the TV on. 

“Nothing’s going on,” he replies, and it’s completely true. The overly bronzed woman on the television starts going on about Lady Gaga’s latest fashion faux-pas, and Dean tries very hard to find her attractive, but he can’t help but notice that her eyes are brown, not X-ray blue, and her hair isn’t the right shade of black. 

“Dean,” Jo says again. Dean makes a point of ignoring her. He doesn’t have to talk about this right now. 

Jo apparently has other ideas. Suddenly, she lunges at him, grabs the remote control from his hand and turns the TV off. Dean is too shocked to respond in time. She throws the remote onto the opposite chair, out of Dean’s reach, and sits on the coffee table in front of him. 

“We are talking about this,” she continues. “Whether you like it or not.” 

Dean folds his arms and grumbles, sinking into the couch. He’s well aware that he’s acting like a child but is finding it hard to care. 

“Fine,” he mumbles. Jo sighs and leans forward, placing her hands on Dean’s knees. 

“Look,” she says. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” says Dean, defiantly. “Mainly because there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” 

“I’m not a moron, Dean. Unlike you, apparently.” 

Dean has had about enough of this already. He just wants to go into the kitchen and eat pie until Sammy comes home, have a tearful and unsatisfying wank with the image of Cas’ eyes fresh in his mind and go to bed, and probably dream of trenchcoats and dry humour. 

“Dean, if you looked at everyone you met the way you look at Cas, you’d be in debt from all the child support,” she pushes. 

“I probably already should be,” Dean retorts. “Seeing as I’ve had sex with so many women due to my heterosexuality.”

“Dean!” Jo exclaims, exasperatedly. “You don’t have to play the hard man in front of me, you know. I’ve seen you drunkenly cry over the fact that Adam Lambert didn’t win American Idol. I think I can cope with the admission that you might – just might – have a bit of a man crush.”

Dean perks up at that. He can deal with a man crush. Every guy gets those from time to time. If anything, it’s a sign of latent masculinity; the ability to appreciate the awesomeness of another man without wanting to bone them. It’s totally normal. That’s what this is. A man crush. That’ll work for Dean. 

“Or, of course, you might have, you know, an actual crush.”

Screw this. 

“Which is fine, by the way - ”

“It is NOT fine, Jo,” Dean snaps. “And it’s not what this is either, so back off, please.”

Jo raises her hands in a mock gesture of surrender. 

“OK, fine. I don’t have time for this, and y’know, refusing to talk about something and burying your fucking head in the sand always makes everything ten times better,” she says, bitterly, and before Dean can apologise or ask her to stay a bit longer, she’s grabbed her bag and swept out the door. That’s what Dean gets for having such a tiny apartment. 

That could have gone better, all things told.


	2. In Which Dean is Really a Massive Idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having buried his feelings for Cas under a layer of denial and humiliation so deep that even a mind probe wouldn't be able to suss him out, Dean successfully continues with his life, all thoughts of Cas banished, ready to move on. 
> 
> Yeah right.

Dean spends the next view days in self-imposed quarantine, only really talking to Sammy. He doesn’t even reply to Cas’ texts, which are as endearingly eloquent as the man himself. Seriously, he’s never met anyone else who actually uses semi-colons and hyphens in texts before. He finds it oddly attractive. He even finds himself typing out a reply saying ‘Will not be at the café tomorrow; seem to have contracted a stomach virus’ before he realises that only Cas can pull off that shit without sounding like a massive douchebag and he throws his phone at the wall, refusing to pick it up for two days. 

In short, he’s starting to realise that he’s absolutely, well and truly fucked. 

It’s almost a relief when Sammy literally kicks his bedroom door in on the third day of his self-induced solitude. He had been starting to wonder if all this wallowing wasn’t a little bit Wuthering Heights. 

Sam throws Dean’s coat onto his bed and pulls the covers back, exposing Dean to the February cold. Dean swears in all the languages he knows how, but Sam’s only response is to pick up the blankets and dump them on the floor. Dean knows he’s serious then. He sits up, shivering. 

“Get up, Bridget Jones,” Sam orders, rooting through Dean’s drawers and producing a clean t-shirt and a pair of jeans that Dean thinks he’s only worn for a week. “We’re meeting up with Cas at the library.”

Dean scowls. 

“No,” he says. Sam stares at him.

“Yes,” he says. “God, Dean, have you been taking life advice from the kids on Supernanny? Grow a pair, will you? I don’t know what’s got into you these past few days. Jo says - ”

“Jo doesn’t know anything,” Dean says, quickly. Smooth. That’ll definitely stop Sam from asking questions. Nicely done, Winchester. 10 points to Gryffindor. 

Sam is looking at him strangely. He shakes his head in despair and walks out of the room, muttering something under his breath about damn crazy brothers and hormones in the water supply. 

If only that were the case, Dean thinks to himself, miserably. 

-

For the entirety of their short walk to the library, which is spent in incredibly uncomfortable silence, Dean focuses on the women around him. He tries to find one who’ll give him the same instant reaction that Cas did. He notices a few who would ordinarily cause more than a stirring in his trousers, but for some reason, he can’t force himself to be that interested. This is decidedly not helpful, he thinks. As they approach the block nearest the library, Sam starts talking about Meg, but Dean isn’t listening. He’s thinking about someone else. 

-

They find Cas sitting by himself in the Celebrity Biographies section, and Dean appreciates the irony. The small upwards tilt of Cas’ mouth lets him know that it wasn’t an accident, and Dean is torn between wanting to kiss the hell out of the man for being so damn endearing and punching him square in the face for making him feel that way about a dude. 

They sit there for about half an hour, Sam, Dean and Cas, talking about random shit; school (Cas studies Masters Architecture), TV (Cas doesn’t own one) and girls (Cas doesn’t have a girlfriend and blushes when asked to provide further details). In fact, Dean learns a lot more about Cas than Cas learns about either Winchester. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Sam was up to something. Luckily, he knows that Sam isn’t enough of a douche to have any ulterior motive.

Sam proves him wrong approximately seven minutes later when he stands up with a look of regret. 

“I’m sorry, guys,” he says. “That was Meg - ” he waves his phone at them as if to prove a point. “ – and she’s having kind of a hard time with our latest assignment. I said I’d go help her out at her place. You’re all right without me, yeah?”

Dean finds all this rather hard to swallow, mainly because he can’t imagine Meg having kind of a hard time about anything, but nods anyway, dry-mouthed.

“I think we will cope,” Cas agrees. 

“It’ll be a challenge though, without your dry wit and scintillating conversation,” Dean adds, and Sam grins. Dean wants to frown, but he doesn’t really want Cas to think he’s a grumpy douchebag, even though he kind of is, and it’s his fault. 

“You’re a jerk,” Sam says, but there’s no malice behind it. 

“You’re a little bitch,” Dean retorts, and there’s definitely a hint of anger there, but if Sam picks up on it, he ignores it. He gives them a weird little salute and walks off, leaving Dean and Cas alone. Together. Alone together. Dean wants to hurl. 

They sit together in silence for a couple of minutes, Cas reading something about old buildings and Dean doodling on the back of a sexual health pamphlet. He’s starting to feel more comfortable. Cas doesn’t seem to have any expectations. Maybe he hasn’t picked up on Sam’s weirdness. Maybe Dean’s just being paranoid. Hey, maybe he even imagined his argument with Jo the other day. 

He remembers the string of swear-words he received via text that night and realises that nope, that definitely happened.

“Do you have any work you need to complete here?” Cas asks out of the blue. Dean shakes his head. 

“I do Psychology,” he says. “I’ll just psycho-analyse you later.” 

Cas blinks. 

“I doubt you would find much of interest to report,” he says. 

“You underestimate yourself, young Padawan,” Dean responds, and immediately realises he is now essentially flirting via the medium of obscure Star Wars references and resolves to commit suicide as soon as he gets home. 

Cas looks at him in the same way one might look at someone who has just announced they intend to murder their next of kin. Dean’s heart does an intensely annoying flippy thing.

“Would you like to come back to my dorm room?” Cas asks. “We could watch a film, if you like. I do not own Star Wars but could probably procure it from my roommate’s vast collection.”

The thing is that actually, yes, Dean does sort of want to see the dorms at this place because he sacrificed living in them in order to move into some squalid shithole with his younger brother. A part of him feels as though he missed out on an integral part of the college experience by doing that. He never really got to experience the late night parties and the sexually voracious roommates, the sound of the asshole in the dorm above having sex until 3am and the fire alarms going off at turn-that-fucking-alarm-off-o’clock because someone was smoking pot in the shower. Instead, he got overdue rent warnings and a brother who didn’t seem to understand the concept of laundry. 

He nods, and Cas positively beams. Dean tries hard not to blush or sweep the other man into a decidedly girly hug.

“I’m impressed you got the reference, by the way,” he remarks. Cas blinks. 

“What reference?” he asks. 

-

Dean is surprised to see that Cas’ dorm room is a complete and utter mess. Seriously. It makes Sammy’s room look spotless. There are dirty boxers strewn about disturbingly liberally and almost every available surface is cluttered with complete shit; DVDs, food packaging, forlorn-looking items of clothing. He resolves never to tell Sam that he’s the messiest person he knows again.

Cas clearly knows what he’s thinking because he sighs and sweeps an area clear near the foot of his bed.

“I can assure you, most of this mess is not mine,” he promises. “I can take responsibility for this area here - ” he gestures towards the neatest area of the room, comprising a bed and a desk that’s only piled about half a foot high in crap. “ – whereas the rest of it can be attributed to my absent roommate.”

“He’s kind of a slob, huh,” Dean states. Cas nods, grimly. 

“Very much so,” he agrees. He reaches across a small pile of what appears to be gossip magazines and picks up a dusty laptop, which he sets down on the bed. He looks at Dean apologetically. “I must apologise that the only chair in the room is currently… otherwise occupied.”

Dean looks around and sees that there’s a chair on the other bed in the room. Well, he thinks it’s a chair. It’s in three bits and appears to be acting as a makeshift clothes horse. He shrugs. 

“It’s cool, man. We can sit on your bed, right?”

Cas nods, solemnly. 

“I mean, can I trust you not to make any inappropriate advances?” Dean jokes, instantly regretting it. Cas blinks twice. 

“I believe I shall be able to restrain myself,” he eventually says. Dean forces a smile. 

“I’ll try and do the same,” he says. “Right, which film are we watching?”

Cas looks nonplussed. 

“I am not a connoisseur of filmography,” he admits. “I generally watch whatever everyone else is watching. I am quite amenable to most films. Although I have to admit to a slight hatred of anything starring Will Ferrell.” 

Dean knew there was a reason he’d become friends with this guy despite the awkward one-sided attraction. He grins and picks up a DVD near the bed that’s not resting under a pair of used socks. 

“I think you’ll approve of this one,” he announces, waving Monty Python’s Life of Brian in the air triumphantly. 

“I have heard good things about that one,” Cas agrees. “I would quite like to see if my roommate’s appreciation of it is based in fact.”

Dean assumes that means he wants to watch it, so he shoves it in the laptop and sits on the bed, his back resting against the wall. Cas provides him with a pillow to lean on and when he scoots closer in order to see the screen he accidentally ends up with his arm sort of squashed against Dean’s side, which Dean finds he really doesn’t mind. 

-

Shit blows up in Dean’s face at what Sam once dubbed ‘the cock scene’. At the sight of an actual penis on the screen – the first penis Dean has ever seen in any situation other than accidentally walking in on someone in the shower – he realises that what he’s actually doing with his life right now is watching a man’s real cock and balls with the man he’s grudgingly beginning to admit to having a huge crush on, and that’s not OK. It’s all getting a bit meta-fiction for his tastes.

He leaps up from the bed. Cas looks incredibly confused, his huge blue eyes growing even wider as Dean knowingly makes a complete prat of himself.

“I’m sorry, man,” Dean splutters. “I can’t do this.”

Cas narrows his eyes.

“Do what, exactly?” he asks. “Watch a film? I was unaware that this was generally considered to be a strenuous activity.”

“Watch a film with you, Cas, on your bed, like two twelve year old girls! We’re grown-ass men! I am twenty-five years old, y’know? This shit just feels a bit weird to me. I’m sorry.”

Cas scratches the back of his neck and closes the laptop. He doesn’t make any move to stand up; just regards Dean coolly from the bed. Dean can actually feel his blood pressure increase. 

“I fail to see the issue,” he says. Of course he does. Of bloody course.

Then Dean decides that actually he hasn’t put his foot in it enough and continues.

“And then there’s you, sitting all pressed up next to me like my high school prom date! It’s weird, Cas! It’s like, I don’t know, you’re gay or something. It’s not normal for dudes our age.”

Something has changed in Cas’ expression. Where there was previously genuine confusion and a hint of concern there is now pure, unadulterated rage. Dean swallows hard. 

“Would that be a problem?” Cas asks, quietly. 

“Would what be a problem?” Dean questions, his heart racing. A part of him wants to apologise, knows he’s essentially digging a hole all the way to China, but the rest of him is a bloody Winchester and Winchesters don’t back down.

“If my sexuality were different from yours,” Cas clarifies. “If I were gay, as you so eloquently put it.” 

Dean really wants to kiss him now and prove that he’s got it all wrong, he’s not a homophobe, far from it, but he doesn’t think that would be particularly well received right now. 

“I don’t know,” Dean says honestly. Of course, the main problem with that would be that then Dean would have no real excuse not to just jump his bones here and now, not that he’s in some way morally opposed to it, but apparently Cas doesn’t understand that. 

“I think you should leave,” says Cas, flatly. When Dean doesn’t respond, his voice gets a little louder, but it’s still quietly furious. “Now.”

Dean doesn’t retort because he’s tired of all this and he just wants to meet a nice girl and not be confused any more and if having Cas be cross with him is the only way to do that, then so be it, he’ll take the risk. 

He leaves.

-

When he gets back to his flat, he ignores Sammy’s concerned questioning and heads straight for his bedroom, locking the door and flinging himself onto his bed in an excellent impersonation of a melodramatic teenage girl. He can feel something uncomfortably lumpy under his pillow, so he rummages around for a moment and pulls out his cellphone. He hasn’t looked at it in three days and he’s not really surprised to see he has ten texts and more missed calls than he can be bothered to sift through. 

He skims through the notifications until he finds one that makes his heart sink to somewhere beneath the soles of his feet. 

It’s from Cas, of course, and it was sent yesterday. It just says ‘ _Thank you for spending time with me. I hope you feel better soon. – Cas_ ’ and there are three things about it that make Dean want to rush back to Cas’ dorm and just kiss the man breathless. 

Firstly, he’s signed off as Cas, Dean’s nickname for him, which is just too endearing, and Dean can’t help but feel a swell of pride that he’s impacted Cas’ life in some way, even if it’s just a nickname.

Secondly, he says he hopes Dean feels better soon, because of course he’d bought all that bullshit about Dean being ill. He hadn’t known that Dean had actually been avoiding him so as not to lose all self-control and make out with him non-consensually.

Thirdly – and this one is the killer, in Dean’s opinion – he’s actually thanked Dean for spending time with him. He actually thinks that it’s in some way an inconvenience for Dean to hang out with him, or Cas is the one that’s benefitting from their odd little friendship. Which is totally fucking insane. Dean’s the one who should be thanking Cas for letting him see his tight little smiles whenever he realises he’s become the butt of another joke, for never using contractions no matter how long it takes him to say a simple sentence, for putting up with all of Dean’s bitch fits because really, deep down, despite the layers of muscle and the five o’clock shadow, Dean’s just a hormonal teenage girl. 

He’s not overly surprised to find that his eyes are welling up, and he allows himself one moment to marvel at the ridiculousness of the situation; Dean Winchester, lothario of the entire school and renowned womaniser with abs of steel and the self esteem of an Adonis, is lying in bed, crying about a boy. Only a moment. Then he returns to feeling sorry for himself, re-reading the text until his phone battery dies and he falls asleep.


	3. Manning Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean won't man up, but someone else will.

The next morning, Dean is woken by the smell of freshly cooked bacon wafting through the building from the kitchen. Yeah right. He’s woken by Sam punching him on the arm, throwing his bedcovers on the floor and hissing in his ear, “What did you do?”

Dean tries to bat him away but his brother grabs him by the wrists and suddenly he’s straddling him and this isn’t what Dean needs at 9am. 

“This is mildly homoerotic,” he manages to say. Sam looks like he wants to hit him.

“I’ll get off if you tell me what you did to Cas,” Sam growls. “He just texted me.”

Dean’s heart starts beating like it wants out. Dean understands how it feels. He swallows hard. 

“What did he say?” he asks, trying not to give anything away. If Cas has told Sam that his brother is some kind of homophobic bastard cock-tease then this might be the worst day of Dean’s life, and it's not even 9am. 

“Nothing,” Sam replies. “It’s what he didn’t say, you idiot. He _always_ asks after you when he texts me. The only reason he ever texts me is to see how you are, for God’s sake. That’s why I have his number, from when you pulled your little disappearing act last week. And he just texted to say he couldn’t make it to lunch today, which is weird in itself because he always acts like it’s the highlight of his day. What the hell did you do?”

Dean grunts. He’s pretty sure his spleen is never going to be the same again after having Sam’s knee rammed into it for a prolonged period of time.

“Nothing,” he says. Sam glares at him.

“Dean,” says Sam.

“Sam,” says Dean.

“Apologise,” says Sam.

“You’re the one attacking my vital organs!” says Dean. Sam gives him a look that clearly means ‘ _every day I despair more of our genetic resemblance_ ’. 

“To Cas,” he clarifies. Dean shakes his head, stubbornly. Sam sighs and lets go of Dean’s wrists. Immediately, Dean flips him onto the floor. It doesn’t work quite how he intended it as he ends up falling off the bed on top of his brother. Sam, being approximately 11ft tall, easily shoves him away and picks himself up, leaving Dean lying on the floor contemplating the likelihood that his spine has actually fragmented. “Do it, Dean,” Sam warns, and walks out, slamming the door behind him. 

Dean wonders when this became his life and resolves to kill himself as soon as possible. He thinks he must have been a total dick in a past life, then realises that actually he’s a total dick in this life as well, and he pulls the bedcovers on top of him, cocooning himself into a mass of sheets on the floor.

-

He doesn’t apologise that day, or the next. He doesn’t intend to apologise on Tuesday but when he comes home after a day of really boring lectures on Freud and why everyone wants to shag their mothers to find Cas sitting on his couch drinking tea with Sam, he realises he doesn’t really have much of a choice. 

Sam sees him come in, sets his mug down on the coffee table and stands up. He looks at Dean and Cas, who is apparently blind and deaf, suddenly realises what’s going on and looks up. 

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” Sam announces, glaring at Dean warningly. Dean gulps. He might be older and, as Sam once so eloquently put it, built like a brick shithouse, but Dean doesn’t fancy his chances against an angry Sam. The kid seems to tower over him at the best of times. Sam looks pointedly at Cas and walks out, and Dean notices how he shuts the door behind him, effectively imprisoning Dean with the reminder that he’s started to fail as a human being. 

They stand in silence for a few moments, and it’s not comfortable like it was that second time in the library. The air is full of things that Cas clearly wants to say and Dean really, really doesn’t. 

“Look,” says Dean at the exact same time as Cas says “I don’t - ” and Cas gestures for Dean to continue. Dean inwardly curses Cas’ chivalrous instincts, then wonders if that makes him the woman in this situation. 

“I guess I should really say sorry,” he begins, chewing his lip. Cas nods slowly, still sitting. Dean starts pacing the room. He’s never been good with apologies. When he and Sam were kids, Sam was always the one getting into trouble, pushing the other kids over and talking back to teachers. As they got older, of course, Dean took over that role, realising that he could do all that stuff for the shits and giggles and then escape the awkwardness by just not apologising. Sam had matured since then. Dean realises that his own story is clearly markedly different. 

“Yes,” says Cas. He steeples his fingers under his chin and Dean notices that he has really graceful hands, long fingers like those of an artist, and swallows hard because he’s been through this before and Cas is a guy and Dean doesn’t swing that way. At all. Although he’s starting to realise that this is clearly not the case.

He realises that he hasn’t said anything else and wonders why he is studying to be a Psychologist when he clearly has such a lucrative career ahead of him in Douchebaggery.

“So, yeah. I’m sorry,” he continues. Cas looks at him, all huge blue eyes and disbelieving and curiosity. 

“Are you?” he asks. Dean nods.

“Yeah,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know why I said what I did. I mean, I know that I probably gave you the impression that… well, I think it’s kind of obvious what impression I gave.”

Cas blinks. Of course it’s not obvious. Nothing ever is to Cas.

“I probably made you think I was a homophobic douche,” Dean clarifies, and Cas’ eyes widen. 

“That wouldn’t be inaccurate,” he confirms. Dean is faced with the overwhelming urge to gather the other man into his arms and then have a little lie down because really, Cas isn’t a pile of straw and could probably do perfectly well without being gathered anywhere, thank you very much.

Dean plops himself down on the sofa next to Cas.

“I’m not homophobic,” he starts, then realises he has no idea how to finish that sentence. He can’t exactly tell the truth, start waxing lyrical on the blue of Cas’ eyes and the angle of his cheekbones and his bed-head and, well, everything. He can’t leave it on that cliffhanger either, though; Cas isn’t stupid and he’ll want explanations.

Dean swallows.

“It’s a little complicated,” he continues. He starts panicking. This is the moment in soap operas where the dramatic music plays and the characters get 24 hours to decide how exactly they’re going to get themselves out of this fucking mess. Cas isn’t giving him 24 hours. Hell, he’s not even giving him 24 seconds; he’s staring at Dean like he can x-ray his bones with a blink. He probably can. It would explain the eye colour.

He’s contemplating how to carry on when Cas opens his mouth to speak and Dean promptly shuts his. 

“I think I understand,” says Cas, carefully. Dean’s listening now. “Sam may have… explained some things in your absence.”

Alarm bells start going off in Dean’s head, and he narrows his eyes. He could kill his kid brother. If he’s spouted some shit about how daddy never loved him and now Dean has commitment issues and can’t show affection to anyone without using his dick, he’s going to vomit.

“Yeah?” says Dean, trying to sound as calm as possible. “What did he say?”

Cas doesn’t answer for a few seconds. Dean supposes he’s trying to find a way to word Sam’s bullshit in a way that won’t make Dean flip a table. 

Then Cas kisses him. It’s a really fucking weird kiss. First of all, it’s with a dude, which isn’t exactly what Dean’s used to. His kissing partners don’t tend to have stubble, for a start. Secondly, Cas keeps his eyes open throughout the two seconds or so that it lasts, dry-lipped and wide-eyed, warily regarding Dean and cataloguing his response. Before Dean can actually respond, however, Cas pulls away. He wipes his hands on the front of his trousers, nervously.

“Oh,” says Dean. Of course that’s what Sam said. Sam’s bloody psychic, always has been. Sam’s known about Dean’s Big Gay Quarter-Life Crisis and he’s been too fucking chivalrous to call him out on it. The bastard. 

Dean accepts that he needs to formulate a reply, and he realises he has two choices. He can respond in a way that will make Cas finally leave him alone to live his life in peace and self-denial, or he can answer in such a way that will ensure a second kiss, and maybe one of those rare, genuine smiles that he likes to see on Cas.

He chooses the latter. He wets his lips to speak. 

“I hope Sam didn’t phrase it quite like that,” he eventually stutters, and it doesn’t sound as suave as he’d hoped because he trips on the consonants but Cas doesn’t seem to mind because he’s smiling and now Dean is smiling and it’s hard to kiss someone when you’re both smiling like lunatics but they give it a good go, and before Dean’s mind goes totally blank with euphoria he thinks that he could probably, just maybe, get used to this.


	4. In Which Things Are Sort of Resolved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are done and said, then said a bit more and then eventually done.

The next morning, Dean really does wake up to the smell of something incredibly edible coming from the kitchen. It’s enough to make him forego his usual morning routine of lying in bed for an hour contemplating the utter futility of his existence in order to go and explore the smell a bit more. 

“Sam?” he calls out, bare feet padding on the hallway floorboards. “It’s about time you made me breakfast. I am a god amongst men, after all…”

He turns into the kitchen and stops in his tracks. Sam is there, but he’s not cooking anything. He’s sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper, a still steaming mug of coffee in front of him. Dean would focus on the comical nature of the scenario, joke about the fact that Sam is essentially an old woman, but he’s too weirded out by the sight of Cas standing by the oven, cooking omelettes and wearing one of Dean’s old college t-shirts instead of his usual shirt and tie. It comes to something, he thinks, when he’s more used to a student dressing like an accountant than a normal, non-blood sucking human being. 

He must gasp or something because both Sam and Cas look at him strangely at exactly the same moment. Dean feels himself flushing crimson.

“Hey,” he mutters, resigning himself to his fate and pulling out the chair next to Sam. Cas beams at him. Sam looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

“Morning,” says Sam. “Casanova is cooking you breakfast.”

Dean shoves him. Sam just laughs. Dean wonders if there’s any possibility he was adopted.

“Doesn’t look like you’re complaining,” he says. Sam shrugs. 

“Hey, free breakfast,” he says. “You should get laid more often.”

Dean’s face feels like it’s on fire. Cas is watching them, his expression a mixture of amused and confused. 

“Didn’t get laid,” mumbles Dean. Sam turns the page of his newspaper. Dean reads the headline; ‘ _Man stabbed in Central Park_ ’. He’s quite jealous of that man right now.

“Fine,” says Sam. “You should _lay_ more often.”

Dean pushes him again, harder this time, and Sam nearly falls off his seat. Cas looks completely nonplussed as he flips the omelette onto a plate and places it in front of Sam.

“He doesn’t deserve it,” complains Dean. Sam sticks his tongue out.

“I was here first,” he counters. “You were busy basking in post-coital bliss.” 

“I was not!” argues Dean, futilely. “Tell him, Cas.”

Cas idly begins to make another omelette. Dean’s stomach does something strange, and he doesn’t think it’s hunger.

“I cannot vouch for the validity of either claim,” he states, and Sam bursts into laughter again. Dean just buries his head in his hands. This is it. This is the day Sam Winchester loses a brother but gains a sister.

Why can’t Cas lie? Just this once? 

It’s not like Dean didn’t _like_ what happened. It’s not that at all. It wasn’t earth-moving or glass-shattering but it wasn’t bad. He finds himself blushing again as he remembers; Cas’ natural clumsiness rearing its head as he tried to pull his trousers off, Dean’s complete ignorance about what you were actually supposed to _do_ with a guy once you were both only partially clothed and in agreement that something was going to go down. He thinks his subconscious could have rephrased that. He remembers how he felt oddly OK with it afterwards, despite the fact that he expected to feel completely the opposite.

He doesn’t feel quite so OK with it now, with Sam laughing at him and Cas standing around all nonchalant like he hasn’t just deflowered Dean somehow. 

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and immediately regrets it, expecting some smart-ass comment from Sam. It doesn’t come. He exhales in relief. Sam looks at him strangely. 

“Are you all right?” he asks, putting down the newspaper. “Need Cas to come and kiss it all better?”

Dean clenches his fists.

“I will kill you in your sleep,” replies Dean, as Cas sets a plate in front of him. He doesn’t really understand why Sam’s being such a dick. Sam’s fucked loads of stupidly inappropriate people – some just hilariously ugly, others weird in other wonderful ways; Dean will never forget the girl who turned out to write fan-fiction on the internet about Barry Manilow and Elton John. 

Sam shrugs.

“I’d say I’d repay the favour,” he smirks, and Dean would very much like to wipe the grin off his face. “But Cas would be there with you, and two on one doesn’t sound like fair odds.”

“Carry on and I’ll stab you with this fork,” warns Dean. He’s trying to keep his tone even, his voice level, so that Cas doesn’t think he’s some dick with anger management issues. He’s probably failing. “And one douchebag on one incredibly pissed, far more muscular older brother doesn’t look like good odds, either.”

Cas is watching them, the look on his face suggesting that he’s trying desperately to keep up with their banter but failing miserably. He sits down opposite Dean and Dean notices that he hasn’t made any breakfast for himself. He looks at Cas pointedly.

“I am not particularly fond of food before midday,” Cas explains. Dean shrugs. At least they’ve changed topic.

Sadly, Sam hasn’t.

“You’d better remember that, Dean,” Sam pipes in. “No romantic breakfasts in bed for you - ”

He only stops because Dean’s no longer there to listen, having stormed out and slammed the door. He realises he’s been doing that a lot lately, but doesn’t find himself caring.

-

It’s about half an hour later, and Dean’s lying in bed, again. He’s made a complete prick of himself in front of Cas for what seems like the hundredth time. He doesn’t expect a repeat of last night any time soon. Cas probably wants to date – oh God, are they dating? They haven’t discussed this – an adult, and Dean is clearly more of a pre-pubescent girl right now. 

He runs things through in his head. There are a few things he’s completely clear of right now. Firstly, Bert and Ernie are gay. He’s always known that. He wonders if he can blame them for his current predicament, childhood conditioning and all that. He doubts it would wash with a jury. Secondly, his name is Dean Winchester. He has a douchenozzle of a brother called Sam and his life is in shambles. All flavoured condoms taste of the same thing, and that thing is despair. There are more things he’s not clear about at all; why the hell he’s fallen so hard for a guy who speaks like Shakespeare and doesn’t recognise the glory of breakfast and can’t undo zips in the heat of the moment and has a dick. That part still really confuses him.

He’s still pondering life and the relative merits of suicide when he hears a knock at the door. Oh God. If it’s Cas, come to break up with him – can you break up with someone you’ve fucked once? – he’s going to hurl himself out of the window. 

“Yeah?” he calls, hoarsely. When there’s no response, he sighs. “You can come in,” he adds. 

The door clicks open and Sam pushes it open tentatively. Dean looks at him and pulls a pillow over his face. He can hear Sam sigh from the doorway.

“Dean,” says Sam. “I’m sorry, OK?”

Dean doesn’t reply. He’s expecting some hardcore grovelling, like when Dean accidentally misinformed Sam’s then-girlfriend - completely unintentionally – that Sam had herpes. Sam had made him perform a song about Brad Pitt’s cheekbones at the school talent show to make up for it.

“Dean,” says Sam again, and Dean removes the pillow from his face and glares at his younger brother. “Genuinely. I’m sorry. I really am.”

Sam moves towards the bed and perches on the end. Dean retaliates by burrowing further into his blankets.

“I didn’t know you were going to get that pissed off,” Sam continues. “I mean, you seemed cool with the whole thing. You let him stay over and everything. I sort of assumed you’d, you know, come to terms with the whole ‘Dean Winchester likes dudes’ thing. I was wrong, I get it. I’m sorry.”

Dean thinks about it. He’s not _not_ OK with it, he decides. As long as other people don’t have to know. He quite likes his reputation as, you know, a male. 

“It’s OK,” he replies gruffly.

He feels Sam pat him on the feet through the blankets and he sits up, granting his brother eye contact. Sam seems pleased about this as he smiles a little, folding his arms.

“So,” says Sam. Dean knows he’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t think he likes where this is headed, so he keeps quiet. “What’s going on with you two, then? Besides the obvious, I mean.”

Dean is not having this discussion with his brother. Not now, not ever. He throws himself across the bed and pulls the pillow back over his face.

“Do you love him?” Sam asks gently. Dean presses his face more tightly into the pillow. “Dean, for God’s sake, I’m trying to help.”

“I don’t knoooow,” he wails, aware that he sounds like a little girl but not really finding it within himself to care any more. As far as he’s concerned, he’s already fucked a dude, and he doesn’t think he’s going to get much girlier than that. 

He can feel Sam pat his foot again. 

“You’ll figure it out,” says Sam. Dean grunts. “You will,” Sam presses. “Really. It just might take a while.”

“What if Cas won’t wait a while?” Dean finds himself asking quietly, and he’s not sure where that came from. Presumably his newly-discovered oestrogen gland.

“He will,” replies Sam. “He waited this long, didn’t he?”

Dean doesn’t respond to that. As far as he’s concerned, that means nothing. Just because Cas has already put up with a few weeks of douchebaggery on Dean’s part, doesn’t mean he’ll put up with any more. Sam sighs. 

“You should really call him,” finishes Sam. 

Dean makes a noise of non-committal, and he hears Sam groan in exasperation before quietly standing and leaving, pointedly not closing the door behind him. Dean cocoons himself further into the sheets and prepares for a few more hours of self-pity and moping, possibly interspersed with a guilty masturbatory session. It’s a beautiful life he leads, really.

“Dean?” says Cas. He wasn’t expecting that. He sits up sharply. Cas is standing in the doorway, still sleep-ruffled. His internal organs do that annoying flippy thing again and he resigns himself to that happening every time he sees Cas. 

“Hey,” manages Dean. “Kind of assumed you’d left.” Cas fixes him with his by-now trademark blue stare. 

“Why would I leave before being able to say goodbye?” he asks. Dean squints, looking for any sign that Cas sees the humour and the irony in that little cliché. Apparently he doesn’t. He looks completely serious. Dean shrugs.

“Wouldn’t really be unfair,” he says. Cas doesn’t say anything, but comes to sit at the end of the bed, as Sam had done. Dean is starting to feel like a cancer patient in hospital, visitors coming and going. He vaguely wonders whether Cas would visit him in hospital. He decides that he probably would. He finds himself strangely happy about this. 

“You regret what happened,” states Cas flatly. He’s inspecting his fingernails for some reason. Dean can’t help himself; he leans forward sharply and takes Cas’ hand. The intimacy of the gesture surprises him. 

“I don’t,” he says, quickly. Cas raises an eyebrow. “I really don’t, Cas. Honest.”

“Then why did you behave as though you did earlier?” he questions. Dean groans and crawls to the end of the bed, sitting next to Cas. He’s going to have to attempt to explain this and hope it doesn’t fail too miserably. 

“It’s not that simple,” he begins. Cas narrows his eyes. 

“Either you regret it or you do not, Dean,” he says. “And I do not. I would like to know if you feel the same.”

“I don’t regret it!” Dean says, panicked. “Please. I don’t. You have to believe me, Cas.”

Cas breaks his gaze, looking at the floor. Dean doesn’t like seeing him like this. He looks small and afraid. 

“Then explain,” Cas sighs. Dean wishes he could express how thankful he was for the opportunity Cas has just given him. Now he has to make sure he doesn’t waste it. 

“It’s like this,” he starts. “A man kind of relies on his reputation in certain scenarios, right? And with me, my reputation is... well. It’s not _bad_ , per se, nothing like that. I don’t think people pick me out as the college man-slut or anything. But I’ve always been That Guy, you know? The one that all the other guys look up to.”

He sees Cas look at him disbelievingly, but pushes on. 

“Not in a clichéd way or anything,” he clarifies. “Not like they had posters of me in the school halls as a shining example of masculinity. But people didn’t mess with me, you know? And they left Sammy alone, too. Actually, all my friends were sort of immune to all the shit, because the other kids knew I could kick their asses if they tried anything. It’s just how it was. Some weird teenage survival thing, I guess.”

“I do not see the relevance,” Cas interjects. Dean sighs.

“I know,” he says. “I’m shit at explaining. I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’ll take a bit of getting used to, having people see me differently. That’s all.”

Cas nods, slowly. Dean’s heart is practically in his mouth, pulsating in his throat. _’That’s all_ ’, he’d said. He realises how fucking stupid he’s been. That really is all. He’s been a complete dick. Cas has never cared how other people view him, and he’s been all the happier for it. Dean’s been so busy projecting this false image of masculine bravado that he could have lost the best thing that’s happened to him in a while. He suddenly wants to curl up here with Cas and forget all the dickish things he’s done recently. 

“Are you willing to have them see you differently?” Cas asks. Dean knows he’s really asking if Dean’s still in this, whatever this is. Dean takes Cas’ face in his hands and looks at him levelly.

“Yes,” he says. “I really am.”

Cas’ face lights up a few milliseconds before the smile finds its way from his eyes to his lips. It doesn’t stay very long because Dean’s doing a pretty good job of transferring it to his own mouth via lip-to-lip contact.

“Get a room,” says Sam. Dean doesn’t even open his eyes as he lobs a pillow towards the doorway. He hears the soft thud as it hits his brother, hears Sam laugh as he walks away.

Cas pulls away, and Dean’s first reaction is that he’s changed his mind, but he’s beaming. 

“We already have a room,” Cas points out. Dean feels his pulse quicken even more. He hopes his veins can take it. 

“We do,” he says. “We should put it to good use.”

He leans forward to meet Cas’ mouth with his own again.

“We should shut the door,” says Cas, breath tickling Dean’s skin. 

“Sam can shut it,” Dean breathes. “Teach him a lesson.”

Three hours later, Sam comes back from meeting Meg, shouts something about public displays of nudity and slams the door. Dean can’t find room for embarrassment. He’s all feelinged-out.

-

He falls asleep that night with Cas, a tangled mess of limbs. In the moments before sleep, he looks at his boyfriend - he's pretty sure that's accurate - and takes in the curve at the nape of his neck, the line of his cheekbones. He finds it hard to believe that Cas' maleness ever really mattered. That's not even his favourite part. He's not sure what his favourite part is. He's glad he's got time to work it out.


End file.
